


Marionette

by TheCookieOfDoom



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Ramsay is his own warning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-15
Updated: 2017-08-28
Packaged: 2018-11-01 01:14:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10911291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCookieOfDoom/pseuds/TheCookieOfDoom
Summary: “What. Is. Your. Name?”“Jon! My name is Jon! Jon Snow; I'm not who you want me to be! I can't be,” he said in the voice of a man begging for it all to stop, for the pain to end.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> If you notice I miss any tags throughout the fic, please let me know and which chapter they're in. 
> 
> Jon: 23 years old, Ramsay: 25 years old

“What’s your name?”

“Jon Snow.”

_Crack!_

“Let’s try again, darling. What’s your name?”

_“Jon Snow.”_

_Crack!_

“No, It’s not. Come on, tell me your name.”

 _“_ Jon… _Snow!”_

A sigh, bored. Ramsay grabbed Jon by his hair, now just past his shoulders, and jerked his head back to reveal red eyes and bloodied teeth that the bound man bared to him, like a vicious dog. Ramsay just clicked his tongue at him, shaking his head.

“Why do you have to be so difficult? You could make this so much easier on yourself, sweet. Just tell me your name. Your _real_ name.”

Jon shook his head, his teeth locked. “My name is Jon, Lyanna Stark is my mother, Rheagar Targaryen is my--”

_Crack!_

Ramsay viciously backhanded him, his ring splitting open Jon’s bottom lip this time. The strike wrenched a broken cry of pain from his throat, but still he stood his ground, refusing to give in to Ramsay’s demented fantasies.

“What. Is. Your. Name?”

“Jon! My name is _Jon_! Jon Snow; I'm who you want me to be! I _can't_ be,” he said in the voice of a man begging for it all to stop, for the pain to end. But there was no pleading with a man like Ramsay Bolton. He didn’t care much for it; or rather, he did, but it wouldn’t help the one doing all the pleading. If anything, it made him worse.

“Please, just let me go,” he said, pulling at the ropes binding him to the Saint Andrew’s Cross Ramsay had bound him too, his arms stretched out so far that he had no real leverage to pull away. His struggles were weak at best. He didn’t know how long he had been Ramsay’s prisoner, but it was long enough for his hair to grow past his shoulders, and for any strength he may have had to leave him.

Ramsay was obviously disappointed as he went to untie the ropes around Jon’s left wrist, then his right. Jon was crying, thanking him, almost collapsing to the ground in relief as much as exhaustion. But then Ramsay grabbed his arm, braced his foot on Jon’s chest, and jerked his arm until he heard a sickening _pop_. Jon screamed as Ramsay dislocated his shoulder, then did the same to his right shoulder.

“It seems,” Ramsay said, pulling and pulling and pulling, then _pop. Scream_. “That your lessons will have to continue on a bit longer. But that’s alright, I have plenty of time to teach you.” He bound Jon’s wrists to the cross once more, hushing him gently as he wept, barely able to breathe in his agony.

“It’s alright, darling, you’ll learn soon enough. If you behave, I’ll fix you tomorrow. But if you’re not… well. You have quite a few more joints for me to play with. Keep misbehaving, and I’ll turn you into a pretty marionette.”

He left Jon like that, in the soundproofed room, locked away where no one could hear him scream, hanging from his wrists and silently begging to die, anything to take away the pain. It was dark, wherever Ramsay was keeping him, so completely absent of light and sound, he could hear his blood rushing, his heart pounding. When he finally silenced himself, of course, running out of tears and oxygen.

“I’m Jon,” he said, his voice barely above a hoarse, breathless whisper. “I’m Jon,” he said again, and again, so that he wouldn’t let himself forget who he was. Ramsay could take everything else away from him, but Jon would not let Ramsay strip away who he was. He _wouldn’t_. He was Jon Snow, he always would be, no matter what that bastard Ramsay Bolton did to him.

Distantly, Jon thought he could hear Ramsay laughing. He knew it was only a figment of his imagination, already unable to escape Ramsay, even in the sanctuary of his own mind.


	2. Chapter 2

Jon Snow was not one for lavish parties. Despite--or perhaps because of--the notoriety of his family, he preferred to avoid the spotlight when at all possible. Going so far as to change his surname from Targaryen to Snow as soon after turning eighteen as he could get the paperwork done. His father had been a little hurt by it, not understanding why he’d done it. But his mother had supported him, lovely woman that she was; she understood not wanting to be connected to the Starks and Targaryens. Of course, that was all for naught when he got wrapped up in a sordid affair with Robb Stark, heir to Tully-Stark Law. His father hadn’t been surprised to see _that_ particular article on the front page news. _Runs in the family, son, nothing to be ashamed of._ He couldn’t decide if it was better or worse that they were both men; depended what side of the fence you were on, he supposed. On the one hand, there would be no children between them.

He didn’t like going out and interacting with people, least of all people who knew who he was. So, when he got an invitation on heavy cardstock and scrawled in real gold ink, personally addressed to him, he had fully intended to use it as kindling. Of course, Robb refused to let him, insisting that he go. But then, he was much better at the whole socializing thing than Jon was. He could schmooze with the best of them; it was as sickening as it was impressive to watch.

Robb had personal motives, however; the invitation was for Jon and a plus one. Meaning he would take Robb--because of course he would, there was no one else he would, or could, take to something like this--which meant he would have a perfect in to schmooze the fuck out of Ramsay Bolton, the host of the party. Ned Stark had been looking to secure the Boltons for years; they were underhanded and more than a little shady, but it was better to have them on your side so that it wouldn’t be your back the knife got buried in. But Ramsay was nearly impossible to get to, if you didn’t know someone. Now Robb knew someone.

“You have to go. It would be rude to refuse,” Robb said, plucking the invitation from Jon’s hands.

“You know how much I hate that sort of thing. It makes my skin crawl.” So many people trying to cozy up to him for the sake of getting close to his family.

Jon was technically a prince of some obscure island, as much as he tried to deny it. There was nothing prince-like about him; His aunt and uncle, Daenerys and Viserys, however, were all the royalty he was not. While Viserys was like a spoiled little prince sometimes, Dany carried herself like the queen she was destined to be. Eventually, Jon would find away to skirt the line of succession and give his position as heir to her. Preferably without killing his uncle, but if it _had_ to happen, well… falling in love with his cousin wasn’t the only thing that ran in the family.

“I’ll make it worth your while,” Robb promised, trying to entice him with seductive smiles and secretive looks. Jon glanced at him from the corner of his eye, intrigued but not wanting to admit it. He tried to assume an air of nonchalance as he spoke.

“Oh?”

“Mhmm.” Robb came to sit beside Jon on the couch, pulling his lover across his lap with ease, _almost_ kissing him but not quite. He ran his hand up Jon’s chest, under his shirt, pushing up the fabric. “You know, I do like seeing you all dressed up, formal and handsome. You don’t do it enough.”

Jon was biting back a smile, Robb’s light touch on his hot skin with cool hands giving him chills. He refused to be charmed, trying his best to not show that he was. “If only I had reason to get dressed up more often,” he said coolly.

“If only,” Robb repeated with a put upon sigh. He nipped Jon’s lip, before pushing his shirt up to his collar bones and leaning down to tease his nipple with his teeth and tongue until he heard Jon’s half-swallowed moan. He lowered his hand back down between Jon’s closed legs, softly rubbing at the inside of his thigh, slowly moving his hand higher until he was just barely palming at his cock through his jeans and Jon’s breath hitched just so in anticipation. “But you know, if you did…”

“If I did?” He wanted to know, wanted Robb to tell him what he would do. Spill his fantasies because damn if Jon didn’t like it when Robb’s posh speech was replaced with absolute filth--even if he was not very good at dirty talk himself--and Robb’s mind was terribly dirty when he really got going. But Robb denied him, knowing that’s exactly what Jon wanted. And he knew when to give Jon what he wanted, and when to withhold it, in order to serve his own desires.

“I suppose you’ll just have to get dressed up and see,” he said sweetly, pulling away and tugging Jon’s shirt back down, and suddenly Jon wasn’t being touched anymore. He glared up at Robb, propped up on his elbows, achingly hard from his teasing.

“Sometimes I hate you,” he hissed, trying to grab Robb’s hand and make him touch him again. But Robb refused, clicking his tongue chidingly as he pinned Jon’s hand to the couch cushion by his wrist.

“You love me. Which is why you’re going to go to that party, and you’re going to take me with you.” He stroked Jon’s inner-wrist with his thumb softly, looking down at him with fondness in his eyes. If Jon said no again, he wouldn’t push anymore. He would never truly want to put Jon in a situation he didn’t want to be in, and Jon knew that. So he relented, his stiff posture relaxing as he went all but limp across Robb's lap.

“ _Fine_. I’ll give you two hours. But the second someone tries to take a picture of me, I’m leaving.”

Robb leaned down to kiss Jon until he was dizzy from it, shifting their positions so that Jon was beneath him, thighs on either side of Robb’s waist.

“I’m sure that won’t happen,” he said when he finally pulled away. “Bolton doesn’t let just anyone near. And I’ll be with you the entire time, I promise.” He wouldn’t leave Jon alone, feeling wholly out of his element.

“You better not. If you do, You’ll be sleeping on the couch for a month. Now finish what you started,” Jon said, hooking one of his legs around Robb’s waist to grind up against him, groaning softly at the friction.

“ _Gladly_.”

In their struggle to get each other out of their clothes, they ended up rolling off the couch and onto the floor, Robb landing with a grunt of pain and Jon on top of him. A position neither of them minded in the least, Jon rolling his hips against Robb’s slowly, teasing him just as much as he had been teased, until Robb couldn’t take it anymore, grabbing Jon’s hips and pushing him onto his back to rut against him like a beast.

When they finally made it to the shower, Jon cheekily told Robb that this didn’t count for “making it worth his while”. Robb told him he’d gladly make it worth his while as many times as he’d like, starting then. By the time they made it to bed, Jon was exhausted, easily falling into a blissfully dreamless sleep. So content was he that he completely forgot about the party, all thoughts of it effectively fucked out of his memory, until Robb reminded him the night before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone is confused, this is the backstory leading up to how Jon got snatched up by Ramsay. like a "one week earlier' type of thing, but I didn't put that because it's cheesy. Next chapter will be the actually party, and possibly the snatching. Third chapter will be back to present chapter. Or it'll be flashbacks every other chapter, I haven't decided yet, but we'll see! 
> 
> as always, please vote, and if you have any prompts, submit them now because I will no longer be accepting after May 30th!  
> https://docs.google.com/forms/d/1OjDEzBg-iUO8967KvPFTGGfVtc2iOylg_aSdoUQKpnY/edit
> 
> edit: my tumblr is the-cookie-of-doom if anyone is curious.


	3. Chapter 3

As soon as Jon heard the door open, followed by footsteps coming down the stairs, he broke down. God, he just couldn’t  _ take  _ it any more, the pain in his body an all consuming entity, the epicenter of which was at his shoulder. For what was surely weeks, he’d been left alone, in the dark, Ramsay only coming down occasionally to give him just enough water to continue surviving. Just enough to keep him weak. And now, Jon was wasting that, tears coursing down his dirty, scruffy cheeks as he begged and pleaded, voice hoarse and mouth like cotton. 

“I’m s-sorry, I-I-I’m  _ sorry _ , Please s-stop, make it st-o-op,  _ please _ \--” 

Ramsay hushed him gently, quieting him, petting his hair, but still Jon cried, silent in his agony. “It pains me to see you like this, darling,” Ramsay said softly, sounding as if he really were full of nothing but concern. Like seeing a loved one suffering some ailment in a hospital. “You know I don’t like to hurt you, but you’ve forgotten who you are. I must remind you.” 

Jon shook his head, telling himself  _ no, no, I’m not--I can’t be--I won’t--!  _ And Ramsay just sighed, disappointed. “You could end all of this. Please, just make this easy for yourself. For the both of us.” 

“N-no-o.” 

“Tell me your name.” 

“I’m _Jon_ ,” he said, voice cracking. He screamed, when Ramsay put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. For weeks, it had been left pulled out of the socket, painfully dislocated and sending pain arching through him with every slight movement, every breath he took. 

“You’re not even trying, pet.” 

“Stop, stop, I’ll be good, I promise!” Jon cried. He would say anything if it would make the pain stop, making Ramsay stop this ceaseless, senseless torture. Still, he didn’t know why he had been taken. Why out of everyone that had been at that nightmare of a party, Jon had been chosen. He wished, now, delirious in his agony, that it had been someone else. He hadn’t been the only one with long dark hair and brown eyes and soft lips. Ramsay could have chosen anyone else to fit the image he was trying to mold Jon into. 

Suddenly, Jon was falling to his knees, no longer suspended from his wrists to balance just on his tiptoes, barely able to breathe from the position. He couldn’t catch himself, too weak from everything he’d gone through for weeks, if not months, collapsing to a pile of limbs on the floor. Ramsay rolled him onto his back, pushing him over with one oxford-clad foot, then bent down to grab his arm. With one foot braced on Jon’s chest, he grabbed the man’s arm and pulled, until his shoulder popped back into place with a sickening sound. Jon sobbed in relief, the pain immediately stopping. 

“I know what you’re going through is difficult,” Ramsay said, stroking the back of Jon’s hand with his thumb. “Normally, I wouldn’t reward bad behavior. But I think it would do you good to see all you can have, if you behave for me.” He kissed Jon’s knuckles, before helping him to his feet, holding Jon up as he could barely stand on his own, let alone walk. 

“I’ll take good care of you,” Ramsay promised, taking Jon out of what had been his personal hell since he was taken, for the first time. 

The sudden light was blinding, Jon having to cover his eyes to protect them, leaving him blind and unable to see where Ramsay was leading him. He needn’t wait long to find out, his questions soon answered  when he was led to a lavish bathroom. Ramsay even went to far as to turn the light off and instead light candles by the dozens; they were much easier on Jon’s eyes, before going to draw a bath. Jon, meanwhile, was leaning braced against the counter, watching Ramsay warily. Was this to be some new type of torture? Jon wouldn’t put waterboarding past him. 

But torture was not the intent, and as the minutes wore on, Jon was calmed by the soft scent of the vanilla candles, if not quite at ease. He didn’t protest when Ramsay had him take off his pants and boxers and get into the now full bath, even if the water was a bit too hot, turning his skin pink. The warmth soothed away much of the soreness in his body, and he was finally able to breathe without difficulty. When Ramsay reached to touch him, he didn’t flinch away, almost content as he gradually relaxed. He even welcomed Ramsay’s hands on his neck as they rubbed away the soreness and pain, leaving him something between sleep and wakefulness, and surely this must be because of some drugs Ramsay had secretly dosed him with. But no, he didn’t feel drugged, he felt like himself. Coherent, but not unaltered. 

After he was finished, skin clean and hair soft once more, Ramsay had him get out and toweled him dry, Jon letting Ramsay do as he pleased. And perhaps he shouldn’t, knowing that after returning to his own personal hell after this would make it so much worse, but Jon couldn’t bring himself to protest, letting Ramsay take him to bed. He didn’t even protest when Ramsay led him to the adjacent master bedroom and handed him not pants and a shirt, but a silk nightgown, more akin to lingerie, for him to sleep in. He slipped it on, the silk sliding delicately over his still scrubbed-raw, sensitive skin, and got into bed with Ramsay. It felt so good to sleep in a bed again, rather than the tenuous bouts of unconsciousness he’d been granted in that basement or dungeon, wherever it was that he was kept. 

He may have cried when Ramsay wrapped him in a warm embrace, carding his fingers through his damp hair and softly speaking to him about this being how he ought to behave, but he couldn’t remember. He was already asleep before the first tear became more than a shine in his eyes, dampening the front of Ramsay’s shirt. 


	4. Chapter 4

“You are  _ gorgeous _ ,” Robb said, eying Jon from head to toe and sighing appreciatively. “I’m the luckiest man alive.” 

“You better remember that when I exact my payment for this,” Jon said, nonplussed and unimpressed with Robb’s praise. He fidgeted, pulling at the collar of his shirt; he was hardly used to such formal wear, the buttoned shirt feeling so much more constricting that his usual t-shirts. He rarely dressed up, only doing so when he was expected to make an appearance at some gathering and say a few words to make his father look good. It had been months since the last time. 

They’d made an agreement: Rhaegar would stop trying to marry him off to this princess or that public official, and in turn, Jon would appear a few times a year to sing praise and play nice with the backstabbing politicians. 

Well, it wasn’t all bad. Jon had met Robb at one of those little soirees, when he’d ducked out onto a secluded balcony for a chance to breathe, only to find someone already hiding out in the shadows. An hour of conversation later had Robb’s neatly pressed pants around his thighs and his hands in Jon’s hair, trying desperately to keep quiet. Clearly they hadn’t been discreet enough because by morning, there were pictures of Robb balls-deep down the Crown Prince’s throat by morning. 

By that evening, Jon was having what was quite possibly the most humiliating family dinner of his life, with his father at one end of the table, uncle at the other--the women of their family willfully left out of this--and Robb across the table from him; the cousin he’d known about, though never met, having been living in Valyria all his life. In his defense, he hadn’t asked the pretty redhead's last name before blowing him, and the flush on his cheeks had been more from too many glasses of champagne--he always needed quite a few of he was expected to play nice--than from any embarrassment at being so cavalier. 

Regrettably, he couldn’t use that excuse the next time he got on his knees for Robb, or the time after that, being stone cold sober. Their little trysts hadn’t stayed between them for long, and for weeks, they were front page news. Nothing was as risqué as the first time, though; they were careful. In fact, many of the pictures were nothing more than going out to eat, or just spend time together as any friends or cousins would. Who would have thought that getting caught sucking your cousin’s dick would change the way people saw you so drastically?

But, as all things so, the hype eventually came to an end. It was old news, and the tabloids moved onto others, Jon and Robb’s relationship scarcely being mentioned. Besides, what they were doing was perfectly legal--if taboo--and even normal in Jon’s homeland. It was just shocking, he supposed, for a prince to do such a thing. No, incest was reserved for the poor and uneducated who didn’t know better. Royalty like him and an upstanding member of society like Robb could  _ never  _ participate in such activities. 

“One week doing anything you ask, without question. Hardly a difficult task. I imagine you’ll order me to keep your cock nice and warm and wet for you,” he all but purred, drawing Jon close by the front of his shirt. The brunette scoffed. 

“Hardly. I’m going to make you do all the chores while I watch and nag at you like a housewife,” he said flatly. “Unlike you, I’m not always thinking of sex.”

“How can I think of anything else when you look like this?” Robb asked, unapologetically. “Actually, I don’t think Mr. Bolton would mind if we were a bit fashionably late,” he said, trailing off as he started plucking at the buttons of Jon’s shirt, until his wrists were caught. 

“Robb….”

“Only joking, dearest. Now come on, before I decide I’d rather take advantage of this rare chance of seeing you dressed up, and getting to ruin it. Just like the first time.”

“If I remember correctly, you were the one looking ruined, not me.” 

“You were drunk, so you’re probably not remembering correctly. But If my memory serves, it was you with coming dripping from his mouth and onto his shirt, not me.” He grabbed Jon delicately by the jaw to peck his lips, grinning. “My lovely little come slut.” 

“You’re incorrigible.” 

“It’s what you love most about me, aside from my cock, of course.” 

“Do I?"

“Mhmm, you do.”

“You’re lucky I love you, you fool. Now let’s go, before I remember just how much I hate parties and change my mind.”

“I love you to. I promise this will be a fast affair, then we can come back and you can forget about the whole thing.” Jon looked doubtful, and unsure, but dutifully dropped the subject, following Robb out to his car. Robb really was grateful, knowing that it wasn’t that Jon just hated going to parties, being seen and having to interact with people. It was having to constantly think about how he acted, how he talked, how he so much as stood. Did he speak in his  high-born Old Valyrian accent, or his more roughed Northern one? Did he seem more reserved, like a wolf lying in wait, or robust and arrogant, like a proud dragon? What did he say about who? Every little thing he did seemed to be closely watched and reported, too much read into every little action. 

He couldn’t be himself. He couldn’t be Jon Snow, 23 year old man hopelessly in love with boyfriend, lover of all things warm and soft. He had to be Jon Targaryen, first of his name, Crown Prince and heir to Varlyria; reserved and revered, showing enough emotion to be loved but not thought to be weak, skilled in diplomacy, and everything a prince was supposed to be. Everything he  _ could  _ be, but wasn’t. He had a dragon’s temper, and breathed fire when instead it would be better to give looks like daggers of ice. Fanned the flames when it was water that was needed. He would never be a diplomat. Never be someone who could speak with silken words and a silver tongue to anyone that wasn’t Robb. 

“Hey,” Robb said, fifteen minutes into the drive. He took Jon’s hand, his lover looking over at him questioningly as he was pulled from his reverie, and smiled softly; affectionate and warm and everything Jon needed to relax, at least somewhat. “It’s going to be alright. I promise.” 

“I know,” Jon said, even if he didn’t feel it, didn’t believe it. Every time he did something like this, he hated it. Even hated that first night he’s spent with Robb; his lover being the only good part about it. He would have hated it more had he not ended up in Robb’s flat, a fist in his hair and teeth sunk into a pillow to keep his pleasured screams from echoing into the night as Robb gave him the best fuck of his life. Or at the very least that year. 

Jon never thought he’d be so wrong when assuming that eventually, the sex would get boring, and he would move onto someone else that could make his blood sing with ecstasy; two years later, it was just as good as it had always been, if a bit more creative than they started. 

Robb gave Jon one more kiss when they got to their destination, before getting out and handing his keys to the valet. Jon had to admit he found this all a bit intimidating, compared to his and Robb’s flat. It reminded his of his home in Valyria, though substantially smaller than the palace he’d grown up in. He was more out of place here than he was anywhere else. Steeling himself, he walked up the many steps to the front door. When he and Robb were personally welcomed by none other than the host himself, Ramsay greeting them both with a hug because ‘handshakes were too stiff”, Jon plastered on the fake smile that he’d perfected by the time he was eleven years old and played the game he’d spent most of his childhood learning. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I drew some pics for this. would anyone be interested in me posting them with the next chapter or nah?


	5. Chapter 5

Ramsay didn’t as Jon his name again when they woke. He just smiled, taking him back to the bathroom and having him sit on the edge of the tub, keeping perfectly still while Ramsay carefully shaved him. He didn’t use a regular razor like most every modern man, but instead and old-fashioned straight razor. He could cut Jon’s throat with one easily enough; they’d made countless movies of it. Jon scarcely breathed, clinging to his life in hope of escape, of returning home to see Robb again, and getting far away from this monster’s clutches. 

He felt Ramsay slip, nicking his throat right over his jugular, and he froze. Didn’t inhale or exhale, staring straight ahead at the wall with fear-wide and tear-filled eyes. Ramsay clicked his tongue disapprovingly, reaching for a cloth to dry up the beads of blood blooming on his neck, and Jon wondered if Ramsay had done in purposefully, in warning. 

“Nothing more than a scratch,” Ramsay said, smile evident in his voice as he held the cloth to Jon’s skin to stem the light bleeding. “I think you’ll survive.”

***

“Look here, darling,” Ramsay crooned, tilting Jon’s head up with a finger under his jaw. In his other hand, he held a brush as expertly he would a knife, the tip of the dark bristles so dark that Jon couldn’t tell the color. Ramsay brushed his thumb over Jon’s plump bottom lip, smiling, before painting his mouth with the deep red rouge. It made him look obscene, with that pretty pout of his. That coupled with his heavy-lidded eyes, thickly kohled, and eyelashes made even thicker with mascara, he was the perfect picture of sin. If lust were to embodied, it would be this man, more beautiful than any woman Ramsay had ever seen, and stirring more desire in him than any other had, as well. 

He set the brush aside, finished, admiring his handiwork. He fancied himself an artist, and Jon was by far his masterpiece. Unfinished though he was, Ramsay could see just how Jon would look once he was complete. He was not yet there, though; there was still the Valyrian dragonfire in his eyes, though quelled for now. Ramsay would put it out, eventually, or he would burn himself out from fighting. 

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, tracing his fingers down a soft, silken strap draped over Jon’s shoulder, and along the hem of the silk charmeuse negligee. The fabric was silver, stroking against Jon’s pale skin and dark hair, beautifully offset by the wine-stained color of his lips, and dramatic smokey makeup around his eyes. 

Despite the heavy makeup and delicate cloth that covered little of his body, Jon looked classy.  _ Elegant _ . Not like some whore. No, he was regal, in a way he never was before. Not like a prince or a king, but a lady. Perhaps a queen. Ramsay had known the moment he’d seen Jon, that this was what he was meant for. Fine things to be draped over his body, accentuating and displaying his figure, not hiding it away behind thick, dark clothes. 

“Oh, I almost forgot!” Beside the expensive makeup and fragrances on the vanity, lay a simple, thin cord. That was what Ramsay picked up, clasping it around Jon’s neck. It was soft against his skin, but tight, and more demeaning than the thickest and heaviest metal collar. There was a single charm on the choker, with a simple symbol stamped into it; Jon had seen it when Ramsay set it down, getting everything ready. It filled him with dread, made him sick to his stomach. He knew what that symbol meant, Robb had gotten him a similar necklace--though that one had been made out of metal, simple and elegant--as a joke on their second anniversary. He still had it, though he never wore it out in public. Those weren’t the games he played with Robb, but it seemed that might be Ramsay’s interest. Parading him around, proudly displaying him for other’s enjoyment. 

Ramsay moved behind Jon to fuss with his hair, he certainly had a lot of it, but it wasn’t really long enough to do much with, and even so, his curls were stubborn. They resisted any attempt Ramsay made to iron them straight. While he was busy, distracted, Jon’s tired eyes slid to the door. It was only two, maybe three yards away. Only a few strides and he could be outside. He could escape; he was taller than Ramsay, his legs longer. And he was quick, enough so to keep up with even Arya. But he didn’t know his way around the mansion, would likely find himself lost in the many halls, unless he decided to try his luck leaping from a window. He would gladly suffer bones broken if it meant getting away from here, but then, it would be difficult to run if his femur was left breaking through his skin, snapped or shattered. 

Before that thought could become anything more, Ramsay fisted his hand in Jon’s hair, jerking his head back at an angle that had Jon’s neck arched back painfully, bared, forcing him to look up at his captor. Ramsay drew his nails up Jon’s pretty porcelain neck, along his jaw, with his free hand, and gave a slight shake of his head. 

“I wouldn’t if I were you, darling. Angering me would not be advisable.” 

Jon clenched his teeth, wanting to keep silent, but his insolence won out over his logic. He would never make a suitable diplomat; how was he supposed to treat with other nations when he couldn’t even restrain himself when his life may well truly be in danger? It should be a simple thing, to keep quiet. To pose as the pretty doll Ramsay wanted him to be, wordless and beautiful. 

“Why are you keeping me here?” 

“Oh dearest, I thought you would have figured it out by now.” Jon wanted to retch at all of the sickly sweet pet names Ramsay used to refer to him. Never his own name. Never once had his name crossed Ramsay’s lips, even the night of that damned party Robb had talked him to. “But I see that you’re not quite ready to behave yet. That’s alright, I can wait. Such a shame, though, I’d had such a nice day planned for us.” 

He pulled Jon up by his hair, dragging him out of the bathroom and into the bedroom long enough to have Jon’s heart seizing, fearing a new kind of torture Ramsay had yet to subject him to, long enough to tie a strip of silk around his eyes to keep him blind Jon was even more fearful, unable to see what was coming, but soon smelled the familiar scent of blood and pain as he was lead down the stairs into the basement. Or wherever it was he was being kept. 

Ramsay shackled him to the St. Andrews’s cross once more, arms high enough to cause the silk negligee to ride up. It was short, barely coming down to just cover his ass. Now it rose high enough to reveal the matching panties he wore underneath, the hemming coming to only just below the waistband. He thought that this was somehow more humiliating than being chained up naked, especially when he felt Ramsay’s hands on the curve of his ass, squeezing, before giving him a firm spank that made Jon jolt. More from surprise and revulsion at being touched than any actual pain; Robb had spanked him much harder than that plenty of times, always leaving him blushing bright and begging for more. But Ramsay wasn’t Robb; he couldn’t even pretend he was, aided by not having to look at him, to make things easier on himself. 

“I’ll be back in three days. I hope you’ll have learned your place by then,” Ramsay said, his voice heavy with disappointment. 

Three days of complete isolation, with no food or water, no relief from the pain that would soon set in from being strung up, ought to be enough to instill some obedience in Jon. If not, then, well, Ramsay would grant him perhaps a glass of water and some supplements to keep him alive, and then sentence him to another three days. And again, and again, until Jon learned how to behave as he was supposed to. 


	6. Chapter 6

“That man is a snake,” Jon said through a too-toothy smile, before taking a sip of his bubbly champagne. His eyes were trained on Ramsay as the man surfed through the crowd like a shark, smiling and talking with his guests. For all intents and purposes, he was just being a courteous host. But there was something about him that had Jon’s skin crawling. 

“That’s why we’re here. Better a knife in your hand than in your back.” 

“He is not someone you and your father want to be associated with. For all he preens now, I know you have seen the same stories I have. He’s been part of more scandals than you and I. Most of them far worse than ours.” 

Robb smiled, laying his hand on Jon’s waist and petting placatingly at his side. “Play nice,” he chided softly.

“This is me being nice. I haven’t actually said anything to him, have I?” 

“You’re terrible.” 

Jon simply hummed, downed his champagne, and grabbed another. 

***

The only good thing about this party, in Jon’s eyes at least, was that no one had tried to talk to him, really. There was a bit of light, friendly conversation here and there, people saying how much of an honor it was to meet him, or to see him again. Asking if he was well, et cetera. All in all, it could have likely been much worse, and there were certainly no cameras flashing, thank god. If there were, he likely wouldn’t have been able to bring himself to stay more than a handful of minutes, damn his promise. 

He was even beginning to relax, when no one seemed to be paying him much mind, everyone engrossed in their own conversations. At least, until Robb left him on his own, in favor of going to talk to those others lucky enough to get an invitation. The way Jon understood it, it was quite the rare treat indeed to be important enough to come to one of Ramsay’s soirees. 

He could do without the honor. 

Robb, he could see, was quite in his element, smiling and laughing along with the others as if he was born to be here, occasionally throwing his smiles Jon’s way. 

A while later, when he wasn’t paying attention, his focus instead on one of the numerous paintings lining the walls, Ramsay finally came to stand beside Jon. 

“The Flayed Man,” he said, hands in his pockets. “An ancestor of mine had it commissioned, after a man tried to take something that belonged to him. The artist was, to put it delicately, ‘put out of commission’ after the painting was finished.”

“What did the man try to take to deserve such consequences?” Jon asked, head tilted just so in a way that had a stray lock of unruly hair falling over his eyes as he regarded the painting. 

“My ancestors lover.”

“Why?”

“To hold for ransom, I’d guess. My ancestor was a lord, you see. But not a kind one. Only a fool would have tried to take from him. You know, it is said he displayed the flayed man’s corpse outside of his keep for many weeks, until it rotted away, and was eaten by ravens. Truly gruesome, but a bit poetic, don’t you think?”

“That’s one way to put it.” 

“Forgive me, I’ve been neglecting you, but i didn’t think i’d be able to get you away from that cousin of yours, so I thought it best to wait for him to wander off so that we could speak more privately. How have you been enjoying the party?”

“Not to be rude, but this isn’t really my scene. I don’t do well around many people.”

“Oh, I’m sure. But I must say, you do look quite in your element here. I may be able to make a public figure of you yet, Your Highness.” 

“Call me Jon, I’m not one for titles. I leave that for the rest of my family,” he said, smiling despite himself as he turned to face Ramsay, putting the painting out of his sight. “And I highly doubt you would be able to succeed where all others have failed. I’m afraid I’m just a natural recluse.” 

“Well, if that is the case, then how about we go somewhere a bit more secluded to talk? There is a matter I’ve been wanting to discuss with you.” 

Jon looked to Robb, who seemed to be engrossed in some deep conversation. It would be a shame to go and interrupt, and besides, he would be fine on his own for a little while. So when he looked back to Ramsay, he nodded in agreement, allowing the man to lead him off, away from the crowd into a parlour adjourning what served as the ballroom. 

Even in here, there were pieces of gruesome, macabre art scattered here and there. Tortured paintings lining one wall, statues lining another. And behind the grand mahogany desk was a fireplace, large enough for several men to stand in side by side comfortably. Two figures framed it, tortured souls carved from stone, twisted as they reached for the ceiling with faces like masks of pain. Above them, was a painting. It was masterfully done, and so unlike the others. A portrait of a young girl, with long dark hair, her features pale, her eyes soft and brown. But glinting with fire that could have possibly been just from the flames below. Jon wasn’t so sure, however, there was a harshness hidden behind the woman’s soft features. 

“Please, sit, make yourself comfortable. Would you like a drink?” 

“Yes, please,” Jon said, going to take a seat on the aged leather couch, across from the fireplace. He heard Ramsay a few yards behind him, opening a cabinet, the sing of glass against glass, the sound of ice clinking and some kind of alcohol behind poured. I smelled like whiskey when Ramsay handed it to him, coming to join him on the couch. 

“Who is she?” he asked, gesturing towards the woman. 

“Myranda,” Ramsay said, something almost like fondness in his voice. “A beautiful girl from a different life.”

“Did you know her?”

“No, but I would have liked to. I’ve read about her, and it seems her and I would have had a lot in common.”

“LIke what?”

“A love for rare beauty, to start with,” Ramsay said, giving Jon a sly grin half-concealed by the rim of his tumbler. 

“Uh….” 

“She was the lady of this house, once,” Ramsay went on, as if he hadn’t say anything, as if he hadn’t looked at Jon like a predator looked at it’s prey. “Much of the art I own is left over from her collection. She really had an eye for it in a way that few people do.”

“She certainly seems to have like the darker side of art.” 

“It’s much more interesting, isn’t it? Anyone can paint a vase of flowers, or a peaceful landscape. But those don’t truly invoke emotion when looked at. But when you see a flayed man, or a tortured one,  _ that  _ makes you feel, doesn’t it? That’s not something the eye skips over. Even earlier, you were looking at that painting a long time.”

“Well, that’s fair I suppose,” Jon said, drinking some of his own whiskey. And Ramsay’s words were true, the works around his home made Jon curious. Things he could spend much time looking at and wondering about. “So what happened to Lady Myranda?”

“She was murdered, sadly. Fed to her own dogs in the height of her youth.”

“That’s tragic. What did she do to deserve that?”

“There are differing accounts on the matter. Some say she was demented, torturing her servants and feeding their bodies to her hounds. Other’s say she was only doing the bidding of her husband, but that’s said about many women of her time?”

“What do you believe?”

Whatever Ramsay’s reply was, Jon didn’t hear it, his glass tumbler falling from his hand to shatter on the stone floor. He tried to stand, his vision swimming, only for his legs to give out and send him falling to the floor as well, shards of glass cutting into him.

Ramsay watched him, drinking the last of his whiskey and setting the tumbler down on a table off to the side. 

“Are you alright, Jon?” he asked, Jon only able to groan in response. “It seems you’ve had a bit too much to drink. I think it would be best if you stay in here and rest a bit. Wouldn’t want anyone else to see you like this, would we? I mean, the prince a drunken fool? That could turn into quite the scandal. 

He picked Jon up, carefully, dusting the glass off of his clothes after laying him down on the couch. “Don’t worry, I’ll let your cousin know that you’re alright,” he said with a smile that Jon could barely make out, walking away even as Jon protested. 

***

“Mr. Bolton,” Robb said, coming over with concern written all over his features. Ramsay turned to him, irritated at being interrupted and being touched, Robb’s hand on his shoulder to get his attention. He hid it all behind a smile, before that morphed into carefully practiced concern as well at seeing his guest so distressed. 

“Please, Ramsay. What is it, has something happened?”

“It’s Jon, I can’t find him. I haven’t seen in in almost two hours. Have you seen him at all?” 

“Yes, we were talking earlier, but that was awhile ago,” Ramsay said, lips downturned into a frown. “He mentioned not liking crowds. Perhaps he went out for some fresh air for a bit?” 

“I checked, because that’s what I thought, too. But he’s nowhere outside.” 

“Oh dear. Well, maybe he went wandering and got lost. It’s hard to find your way here, if you don’t know the layout.”

***

Jon could hear Robb and Ramsay speaking to one another through the door. He tried to stand once more, again falling. But determined, he tried to pull himself to the door, knowing that even if it was locked, if he were able to make a sound Robb would hear him, just as clearly as he could hear his lover. But when he finally reached the key to his escape, he had worn out what energy was left to him. His hand slid against the thick wood, unable to bring himself to reach the handle and open it. And even worse, he couldn’t make his voice work, words getting stuck in his throat even as he tried to speak. 

Soon, the voice faded, accompanied by the sounds of footsteps; Ramsay leading Robb away, to go search for Jon when he had been  _ right there _ , so close. 

***

Robb searched for Jon, with Ramsay’s help, long after the party ended. But there was no trace of his lover, nor had any of the guests seen him. It shouldn’t have been possible,  _ someone  _ should have seen him, Jon wasn’t the kind of man that went unnoticed. 

“Perhaps he left early?” Ramsay suggested. “He didn’t seem to be comfortable here, so it would make sense for him to do so.” 

“I don’t think he would have, not without at least telling me first,” Robb said. Damn him for it, for making things more difficult than they needed to be for him. “But he might of, I guess.”

Ramsay pat Robb sympathetically on the back, pulling a car from his pocket with his other hand. “Here, please let me know if you find him. I would hate to have a guest, especially one so prominent, go missing under my care.” 

“I will. Thank you, Ramsay.” 

He saw Robb off, and then returned inside to find Jon laying limp inside the room he was left in, barely conscious with hate burning like fire in his pretty, pretty brown eyes when Ramsay picked him up once more to carry him away into the kennels beneath the mansion. 


	7. Chapter 7

Khol was smudges around his eyes, streaked from days--if not weeks--of tears and sweat and maybe a little blood. The lipstick had long since worn off, but his lips were still stained crimson from what was definitely blood. He could still tasted the salty tang of copper when he licked his dry, cracked lips to try and moisten them with what little saliva there was in his cottony mouth. 

Jon had been left down here for what was beginning to feel like forever, time stretching out into eternity as he was left trapped in the dark hell he was relegated to. He had been granted only a brief reprieve, a few hours away from here, and it was enough to make being locked away so much worse. There was a single gas lamp burning by the door, casting eerie shadows over what Jon knew to be the walls, even if they did warp into the form of demons sometimes. Ramsay hadn’t allowed him sleep, and after so long of being deprived, Jon had begun to see things in those shadows. Things that, deep down, he knew weren’t real. Even as they tore at the remnants of his sanity. Visions of things that couldn’t possibly exist outside his own addled mind tormented him, the nightmares he’d been plagued with before seeming like blissful dreams in comparison. 

He justed wanted to go  _ home _ . Back to his cozy little flat, where he could curl up in Robb’s warm embrace until the nightmares went away and he could fall into a dreamless sleep. Like before that mess of a party had happened. _ One day _ , he promised himself. One day, he would make it home. Robb was looking for him, and he knew his lover would eventually find him. When Robb did, he would never go to another damned party again, of any kind. He would keep to himself, as he’d always preferred to do, damn his father and damn his future kingdom. All he had to do was wait this out. 

The next time Ramsay came to him, Jon was so far gone that he couldn’t remember the promise he had been so determined to keep. Not now, when all he could think of was how much he wanted it all to end. He didn’t care how, anymore, so long as it was over. 

“It pains me to see you like this,” Ramsay said, with sorrow in his voice. Not real, genuine sorrow, or he would have already released Jon long before now. “Please, darling, just do as I say. Tell me your name. Your  _ real  _ name.”

The person, the withered and wilted form that was left of one anyhow, looked up at Ramsay with tired red eyes. Looking as if just that small amount of effort to pick his head up was bordering on too much, taking all the energy he had stored. He tried to speak, and was unable to produce more than a helpless, dry sound from a parched throat that hadn’t seen water in an unknowable amount of time. 

Ramsay took pity, a rare moment of mercy. He held Jon’s head up, holding a cup to his lips, offering him a drink. It wasn’t enough to slake his thirst, just enough to wet his throat. Ramsay pet Jon’s matter, filthy hair, before caressing his cheek. Tenderly, like a lover, and softly crooned,

“Tell me your name.” 

“M-Myr--?” 

_ Crack! _

Ramsay slapped him, a vicious blow that had blood trickling from the corner of Jon’s mouth and his vision spotting. Ramsay took a ragged deep breath to calm himself, fussed with this jacket to straighten it. He pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket, cleaning the slight bit of blood from his hand, and then Jon’s mouth. 

“No,” he finally said. “You are not worthy to so much as speak her name, nevermind bear it.” 

Jon had caught onto Ramsay’s game a long time ago, within only hours of his captivity. He knew what Ramsay wanted from him. But he’d changed the game at some point, and Jon no longer knew what exactly Ramsay wanted from him now. Perhaps at first he had sought to turn Jon into his beautiful, vicious Myranda. He must have changed his mind when he saw that Jon could never be as cruel as her. Jon was desperate to tell Ramsay anything he wanted to hear, if it meant freedom. Even minimal freedom. But he just didn’t  _ know  _ anymore. 

Then he remembered something he’d overheard at the party. Ramsay speaking with another guest, mentioning something about a ‘Joanna’. 

_ “‘Jon’?” the man had said, laughing. “Looks more like a ‘Joanna’ to me.” _

_ “You know, you are absolutely right,” Ramsay said with a laugh of his own, his eyes straying to Jon for just a moment.  _

“Jo--,” Ramsay’s eyes were cold, expectant, perhaps even a bit manic as he waited for Jon to speak, waited for him to slip up and say the wrong name that was just at the tip of his tongue.“Jo _ anna _ . My name is  _ Joanna _ .” 

Ramsay smiled, beaming at him with pride, and Jon didn’t even notice the tears on his face until Ramsay wiped them away with the same cloth that was stained red with his blood. 

“There, there, darling, there’s no need to cry. Everything is going to be alright now that you know who you are.” 

He pulled a needle from Jon’s arm--it was connected to an IV, that must of been how he was kept alive, despite Ramsay starving him for so long to weaken him--then unlocked the shackles around Jon’s wrists. He collapsed into Ramsay’s arms, the man picking him up and carrying him like a bride over the threshold and out of the kennels. He was so light, any muscle and excess fat starved off him. Ramsay would need to work on fattening him up a bit, to make him soft and pliable, as he should be. 

But that could wait. For now, he took Jon to the bathroom to get washed up before bed, as he had before. And this time, when Jon awoke the next morning, he did not fight. He did not question. Nor did he kiss back when Ramsay’s lips met his, but when Ramsay spoke the dreaded words he repeated them. 

“I love you Ramsay.” 

If Ramsay was displeased that his kiss went unreciprocated, he did not express so. Instead he took Jon, still barely able to stand on his own--and certainly unable to walk long distances--into the large walk-in closet his side of the bed faced. Everything inside was neatly organized and beautiful, made from fine, decadent fabrics. While Ramsay went to peruse the delicate looking dresses, ones presumably meant for casual day wear, Jon wandered around inside. Shoes of all kinds lined one part of the floor; soft stockings; pants and leggings and blouses; panties and bralettes that had his cheeks flushing crimson; lingerie ranging from sexy and bording on vulgar, to sensual and classy, elegant pieces. Then jewelry, of course. Expensive antique pieces that were likely worth a fortune. Jon wondered if any of it had belonged to Myranda. 

He was running his fingers over a milky white slip when Ramsay came back to him, feeling the texture of the soft silk. He wondered how it would feel to wear, the delicate fabric gliding over his skin. Ramsay smiled, brushing Jon’s hair aside to kiss his neck. 

“Would you like to wear that one today? I think it would look lovely on you.” When Jon nodded, Ramsay pulled it down and draped it over his arm, on top of the powder blue dress he already held. He picked a few other articles as well, before finally taking Jon’s hand to lead him back into the bedroom, laying the clothing on the bed. He watched with a lecherous smile as Jon stripped out of his silk pajamas, but when Jon reached for the slip to put on, Ramsay tutted disapprovingly. Jon immediately recoiled, holding his hand to his chest as if burned. 

“It would seem you have a lot to learn,” Ramsay said, fond amusement in his voice. There was a razor sharp edge to it as well that said Jon better learn fast. Ramsay wasn’t a man that liked repeating himself. 

“Here, these go on first.” Ramsay picked up the panties, lacy and cream colored, and kneeled before Jon, wanting to put them on him. Jon had to hold onto Ramsay’s shoulders to keep his balance as he stepped into them, unable to suppress a shiver as Ramsay slid them up his legs. He stopped for a moment to press a kiss to Jon’s hip, before standing once more. 

This time he picked up the bralette. It was meant for decoration, rather than to serve any true purpose. It felt… strange, to say the least, rubbing against his nipples like that. Jon couldn’t decide if he liked it or not. Not that it mattered in the least. 

After that, Ramsay pulled the stockings up Jon’s legs, slow and sensual as before, kneading his flesh until his legs shook and he could barely keep standing. Then finally, Jon was allowed to put on the slip. It felt just as he’d imagined it would, like the kiss of a butterfly’s wings over his skin. It came only to mid-thigh, just barely covering him. Until Ramsay pulled it up in the back, hands running over Jon’s ass. 

“These fit you perfectly,” he said, fingertip idly tracing the pattern of the lace panties. He gave Jon a good squeeze before pulling away, the slip falling back into place. 

He helped Jon put on the last piece of his outfit, the blue dress. There was an embroidered pattern of baby’s breath around the waist, where it tapered in. The dress was gorgeous on Jon, fitting him almost perfectly. Almost. It was a bit loose around his thin frame, but that could be fixed easily enough. 

Lastly, Ramsay took Jon back to the bathroom, having him sit at the vanity so that Ramsay could do his makeup. It was light this morning. Just a delicate dusting of champagne shimmer on his eyes, soft blush on his pale cheeks, and a light pink gloss on his lips. Jon tried his best to pay attention to the way Ramsay applied it, so that he would be able to recreate it when such a thing was asked of him. 

“You’re so beautiful, princess,” Ramsay said, looking at Jon’s reflection in the mirror as he pinned Jon’s hair back. Each of the little pins had a single, small diamond encrusted on it. His darling princess, whom he’d rescued from the dragon-guarded tower like heroes of old. 

He looped a string of pearls around Jon’s neck, clasping it behind him, followed by a silver ring placed on his left hand. 

“What is this?” Jon asked, lifting his hand to look at it. 

“That, my darling Joanna, is an engagement ring.” 

“Oh…” He hadn’t known that would be a part of the fantasy, having to play the part of Ramsay’s fiancé, and perhaps eventually his wife. Did it even really matter, in the long run? 

“Aren’t you happy, dearest? I thought you would be. You love me, don’t you?” 

“Yes, Ramsay, I love you.” 

Jon looked at himself in the mirror, really looked, but it wasn’t himself staring back. Staring back at him, Joanna tsked, and told him not to cry, lest he ruin his pretty makeup. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've almost reached my goal, so if you enjoyed this chapter, please consider buying me a coffee! https://ko-fi.com/thecookieofdoom
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> edit:
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	8. Chapter 8

For what had to have been at least a week, Jon's mornings continued on in much the same fashion. Ramsay would wake him, bathe him, and dress him. Like he was nothing more than Ramsay's pretty dress-up doll. Jon was helpless to think otherwise, feeling as if here were a marionette, waiting for his puppeteer to pull his strings. It was just so much easier for Jon to let Ramsay control everything, take care of him, that within days Jon could do nothing else.    
  
When Ramsay woke him in the morning, he smiled. When Ramsay kissed him, he kissed back, lips parting easily. When Ramsay touched him, he leaned into it, welcoming. He was Ramsay's lover, not prisoner, and so he received Ramsay as such. He no longer fought to escape. Ramsay wanted only what was best for him, to take care of him completely. Jon needn't worry about a single thing when he was with Ramsay.   
  
Ramsay wanted to keep Jon entirely dependent on him for every little thing.    
  
Like so many mornings before, Ramsay woke Jon, the latter following him into the master bath. Jon smiled as the soft blue nightie was slipped from his shoulders, straps replaced by Ramsay's hands. He leaned into the kiss Ramsay graced him with, following gladly as he was pulled under the hot spray of the shower.    
  
Since Ramsay had taken Jon in, he'd been a total gentleman. Now he pushed Jon up against the tile wall, fisting his hands in oil-slick curls and deepening the kiss to something filthy that had Jon melting like expensive chocolate on his tongue. Jon lifted his hands to pull Ramsay closer—never to push him away—moaning into his mouth. Ramsay only pulled away to trail kisses down Jon's neck, the latter closing his eyes and tilting his head back against the wall in a silent plea for more. Ramsay obliged, the kisses becoming edged with teeth. Ramsay slid his free hand down Jon's thigh, coaxing it up for Jon to wrap it around his waist.    
  
Jon was hard against Ramsay's belly, grinding against him, begging. But Ramsay refused to touch him. Going so far as to let his thigh fall in favor of grabbing grabbing Jon by the wrists to pin them above his head, keeping him from touching himself.   
  
"Please," Jon begged, breathless from the kiss that had stolen the air from his lungs. He looked at Ramsay with those big brown eyes of his, blown with lust and need but Ramsay could not be swayed. He refused to be tempted.   
  
"No, my sweet.  Not until our wedding night." Jon looked stricken. It was impossible to tell if that was from trepidation, or the thought of having to wait so long before finally being allowed release.    
  
"When will that be?"   
  
"Soon, I promise. There are only a few more details that must be worked out. Then you shall be mine. My lovely, perfect wife until death do us part," he cooed. Ramsay smiled, brushing Jon's wet hair back away from his pretty face. "I can't wait to see you in your dress, I'm sure it will look beautiful on you."   
  
"Will you let me see it today?"   
  
"No, it's a surprise. I don't want you to see it until it's time for you to walk down the aisle."   
  
Jon only nodded in response, not bothering to ask if he would even like the dress, satisfied that If Ramsay did he would as well.    
  
The rest of the shower was spent in silence, Jon washing Ramsay as the latter did the same to him. Getting out and toweling himself dry with a soft fluffy towel, Jon expected Ramsay to pick his outfit as he'd done thus far. He was surprised after wrapping the towel around his waist and going into the bedroom after Ramsay; that's not what happened. Ramsay did go into the closet wearing nothing but a pair of pants himself, but he made no move to select an outfit. Instead he sat down on a soft cushioned stool beside the rows of shoes, and gestured Jon forward.    
  
"I think it's time for you to learn to be a big girl and dress yourself, princess," he said sweetly. Jon's cheeks flushed a pretty pink, stark contrast to his usual porcelain pallor. Ramsay made it sound as if he were a child, unable to dress himself. He had only been doing what he'd thought Ramsay wanted, playing the part of a dress up doll for Ramsay to decorate to his tastes. "Come on, pick something to wear."   
  
Slowly, Jon came forward, looking at the clothes as if a daunting task had been set before him. What if he picked something Ramsay didn't like? No, that wouldn't be possible. Ramsay had carefully selected every article of clothing in the closet; he wouldn't have picked anything he didn't want to see on Jon's lithe body.    
  
First Jon picked through the dresses—completely bypassing the lovely blouses that could be paired with simple jeans—touching each of them with closed eyes before finding one made of a buttery soft fabric that slid delightfully over his skin. He took and down and held it up to his body, turning to show Ramsay, seeking approval.    
  
"Wear whatever pleases you, sweet," was all he said, giving Jon an unreadable smile.    
  
Unsure, Jon went to go lay the dress out on the bed, returning once more to the closet, this time to pick out a slip. Once more he chose by the texture of the fabric, selecting the one that felt best against him. He took the matching pair of stockings from the drawer below, then went to lay them beside the dress.    
  
He went into the closet a final time, the blush that had faded once again adorning his cheeks; it was time to select a bra letter and pair of panties. Of all the articles, these should be what he was most careful about choosing since they would be in such intimate places all day. It would be unfortunate for him to pick something scratchy or uncomfortable. Instead, he picked two pieces at random, eyes downcast and cheeks rosy. Ramsay's grin was predatory as he watched the shy way Jon avoided looking at the lingerie.    
  
"I think you've forgotten something," Ramsay said when Jon turned to leave. He reached down to pick up a pair of white pumps, holding them up for Jon, to take. The young prince did, going back into the bedroom to dress, full of hope that Ramsay would think him pretty in his chosen outfit. Ramsay followed going to his own closet to pick out a button down to wear, while Jon regarded the outfit he'd laid out.    
  
By the time Ramsay was taking down a shirt, he could hear Jon beginning to dress. He turned in time to see the slip fall just below the swell of his ass, pleased until he saw what was hidden in the folds of the blanket. The bralette and panties that should be on Jon's body were off to the side, Jon likely thinking he could get away with not wearing them. Silly little thing, thinking that Ramsay wouldn't notice.    
  
"Come here, princess," Ramsay said, taking a seat on his side of the bed and gesturing Jon over. Apprehensively, he went, coming to stand between Ramsay's spread thighs and fiddle with the hem of the slip. To hold it down and cover himself most likely.    
  
"Did you not like the dress I picked?" Jon asked, demure and sweet. It was a diversion tactic, whether he was aware of it or not. Still, Ramsay grinned up at him resting his hands on his hips. Jon looks so afraid, bottom lip trembling at the thought of Ramsay's disappointment. His attempt at deception likely had something to do with that pretty pout as well.    
  
"No, I think you chose a lovely dress." Ramsay slid his hands down Jon's hips and under the slip to run over Jon's soft, bare ass. "But I'm wondering if you've forgotten something else."    
  
"Ramsay," Jon began, silenced by a stern look. He bit his bottom lip, looking down at his hands unable to face Ramsay.    
  
"I think you have. Where are your panties?"   
  
"I was going to put them on! I swear, just... not yet."   
  
"Why is that?"   
  
"I wanted to be more covered up first," he mumbled, knowing the excuse was weak but having no other. Ramsay tsked at him unimpressed by the defiance; especially when he pushed the slip up higher to reveal that he had not put on the bralette either, completely exposing him to Ramsay's gaze. Jon blushed, fidgeting uncomfortably. In the shower Jon hadn't minded showing his body nearly so much, but that had also been in such a completely different situation. Ramsay was looking at him the same way he was now, scrutinizing him, making him feel so small despite being the taller of the two. Ramsay let the slip fall back down to cover him once more, watching Jon squirm under his attention.    
  
Jon was so sweet and shy, he would be lying if he said that wasn't part of the appeal. But Jon has broken a rule, and as such needed to be punished to prevent him from breaking others. He reached up, tilting Jon's chin up so that he was no longer staring at the floor, patting his lap in a way that made Jon look at him with wide eyes. Jon tried to back away, only for Ramsay to catch him by his waist, hands squeezing tightly around him in a way that was sure to leave delicate bruises.    
  
"None of that now. You need to be reprimanded, princess; bad little girls that misbehave get spankings. Trying to fight will only make your punishment worse," Ramsay said in a tone that brooked no argument. Then he softened, rubbing soft circles on his hipbone with his thumbs. "But if you behave, I will be lenient."    
  
Slowly, Jon laid himself across Ramsay's lap, pert ass offered up. Ramsay smiled, pleased at the obedience, pulling the slip up once more until he was bunched up just above Jon's ass. He rubbed his hand over one cheek softly to feel Jon tense up in anticipation, before giving him a sharp spank that made him jolt.    
  
"This would hurt much less if you had panties on this lovely ass of yours," Ramsay said, spanking him again. Already, Jon was turning a pretty shade of pink. "But then, if you had done as you were told and put them on, I wouldn't have to do this."    
  
"How many?" Jon asked softly. Ramsay pet Jon's stinging cheek, humming thoughtfully.    
  
"That's a good question. We'll do this until I'm satisfied that you've been appropriately reprimanded." Jon keened when Ramsay slapped him much harder than before, biting his tongue against a protest. Ramsay had promised to be lenient if he behaved.    
  
"I am being lenient," Ramsay said, and Jon realized he'd spoken out loud. "I could use a cane, or a switch, which I promise you would hurt much more than my hand. You should thank me for being more gentle than that." He fisted his left hand in Jon's hair, pulling his head up. Already there were tears of humiliation building up in his eyes, though not yet falling. That was alright, soon enough his face would be wet with them.    
  
"Thank you, Ramsay," he said, neck arched painfully.    
  
"That's a good girl," Ramsay crooned, keeping Jon's head up as he brought his hand down on his ass to hear the strangled sound of pain Jon made. Ramsay was delighted, releasing Jon's hair and delivering several more sharp blows. His ass was a lovely shade of red now. Sensitive and stinging, making Jon twitch as Ramsay rubbed his hot flesh softly. In truth, he could do this for hours. It was satisfying in a way that few things were, watching Jon writhe in his lap while listening to him mewl and keen.    
  
Ramsay waited until Jon relaxed before spanking him again. This time Jon cried out, his ass sore and sensitive. Ramsay could imagine the tears streaking down his face now. Cheeks red and splotchy and damp, plush bottom lip between his teeth in an effort to keep his noises quiet. Ramsay kept on spanking him until Jon was crying outright. Only when he was openly sobbing into his arms did Ramsay gently pull him up so that he was sitting in his lap. With a soft, proud smile, Ramsay stroked away Jon's tears and softly kissed his bite-bruised lips.   
  
"You did so well, baby, I'm so proud of you. It's alright now, it's over," he said softly, cradling Jon to his chest while he cried, more from the humiliation than the pain.   
  
"I'm s-s-sorry, I won't do it a-gain, p-prom-ise."   
  
"I know you won't. You're, my good girl, aren't you?" Jon nodded, face buried in his neck. Ramsay rubbed his back until he finally calmed, hands sometimes dipping lower to massage Jon's abused ass.    
  
Ramsay could feel Jon reaching around him to grab the panties. He smiled, stroking Jon’s hair. "My good little girl," he said.   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woo another chapter for this mess lol. I had a really devious idea the other day, so pay attention when the wedding scene happens! Something very important that wont come into play until later will be hinted at ;)

**Author's Note:**

> I was going to wait to post this for a few weeks but ahhh i'm so excited about it, okay? And we all know about my lack of self-control (glares at the 4 updates of Horror of Our Love in as many days) So here it is, the infamous story. It was previously going to be called Happy Wife, Happy Life, but I decided to change it into something a bit more ominous-sounding ;)
> 
> its... its going to get fucked up, guys. But if you made it through Reeks torture, you'll make it through this; its about the same level of horribad. With the added bonus of a happy ending (figured I tell y'all that now and give you some hope for poor Jon. And unlike Ramsay, I'm not a liar! Unless I am, and just lying about it ;3 )


End file.
